


Winter — 2004

by trash_bat



Series: Years and Years [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Barebacking, Couch Sex, Dirty Talk, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Filming, Hero Worship, Jealousy, M/M, Marijuana, On Set, Possessive Sex, Power Imbalance, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sleep Deprivation, Television
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 00:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: Nathan Barley on-set after hours antics. Things get pretty dub-con-y here; proceed at your own risk.





	Winter — 2004

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).



> _Suggested Pairings_   
>  [“Climbing Up the Walls” - Radiohead](https://youtu.be/xdPqg-tcAWU)   
>  [“Damaged Goods" - Gang of Four](https://youtu.be/byCqOvRMOvo)   
>  ["Numb" - Portishead](https://youtu.be/Kv1rYcepTEQ)   
>  ["Stay Loose" - Belle and Sebastian](https://youtu.be/u-T3xG7bQIQ)   
>  [“Wave of Mutilation” (UK Surf) - The Pixies](https://youtu.be/_BC061qfj_o)   
>  [£7 wine, preferably Southern French or Dutch](https://youtu.be/YDxtn5bV9pc?t=1287)   
>  [ British apple of your choice](http://greatbritishapples.co.uk)   
> 

Six weeks left.

At this rate Charlie’s unsure if he’ll make it through the next six hours — hell, six _minutes_. Six weeks will absolutely do him in. Already he’s close to keeling over, face-planting into the craft services table from exhaustion. He hasn’t been this shattered since he was writing for the magazine, up until dawn playing Tekken in his living room and then blearily dragging himself to Notting Hill Gate to open the shop, trying to pound out parody listings somewhere in there. Back then he'd been red-eyed, dry-mouthed, sleep-deprived. Now he's merely running on adrenaline and fear. 

It's Saturday and _as per fucking usual_ he hasn't even made a start on the column due Tuesday morning. Plenty of time to catch up on _I'm A Celebrity_ and say something terrible about Natalie Appleton.Thus far he’s managed to avoid mentioning this sitcom. Conflict of interest to plug it, probably. His parents had been proud when he’d got that first byline, and though his mum reprimanded him for _swearing so much Charlie must you_ they weren’t likely to be particularly fussed about a few meditations on cat vomit. What they’ll think about the programme remains to be seen. Whatever the case, imposter syndrome hovers around him like a particularly malicious bee. 

He's been writing the fucking thing for going on four years now, and yet every week he fully expects for his editor to say _Listen Charlie we've really appreciated everything you've done for us but there's only so many jokes about shitting pinecones we can print before people start to think we're supporting naturopathy._ He'll do it when he gets home. Hopefully it'll be at reasonable hour. But with Chris at the helm — 

He should be more excited. Thrilled, even.

Chris is a fucking _legend_. When they'd first met Charlie had considered his luck stratospheric. Chris had complimented his trainers, bought him coffee, called him in for meetings. ( _And the other things_ his mind helpfully supplies _don't forget those_.) And now, to write with him? That's a privilege he doesn't remotely deserve. Shit, men have stabbed one another for less. 

Being on-set has changed things, though Charlie can't quite put his finger on how they're different. They just _are_. There’d been workshops followed by table reads and while he hadn’t paid Charlie any special attentions during those it wasn’t as if he’d _ignored_ him, either. But Charlie had been so fucking eager to start filming. His first proper scripted production, with runners and sets and things. Coffee he hasn't got to pay for; what's more, no sooner has a coffee-shaped thought floated into his conscious mind then someone is fitting a paper cup to his hand. With no expectation of thanks, either.

He’d come in on day one, a couple minutes early, even, only to find Chris already there by the craft services table dunking a tea bag into a polystyrene cup while Julian — _also early_ , Charlie had noted with disgust — bent his ear about something. Julian’s dark eyes had flicked over to him, and thank fuck for Richard who’d chirped _Morning, Charlie_ as he wrenched free a banana from a cluster, because if it weren’t for him then Charlie would have felt awfully short next to the pair of them. 

Not a pair, but. Still. _Still._

Chris’d nodded a hello and Charlie managed to say _Hi everybody_ without walking straight into the table but really he was thinking about how broad Julian’s shoulders were and why did he need to talk to Chris first thing in the fucking morning and couldn't he just get his coffee first? 

Set is different because Chris isn't just _his_ anymore. Not that he was Charlie's ever, but there are all these goddamn people around now, and they all want his undivided attention. Even though in the past he hadn’t always liked it — that much scrutiny, up close, made him want to crawl out of his skin and leave it on the floor like a damp bath towel — when it shifted to anyone else for more than a few seconds, he’d felt bereft. Empty.

He gives it to them, too. He gives and gives and gives and Charlie is sour, pissed off, because what's gonna be left for him? Yesterday he walked through blocking with Noel, reassured Julian, listened to Richard blabber on, all this done with the grave intensity of a university admissions officer. He found time to assist Charlie with a quick rewrite, give a quote to a lurking journalist, watch the rushes with the AD, persuade Ben to stay late to practice blocking the fall they'll shoot on the Monday. And still had energy leftover to take a select few people out for drinks — _my shout_ he told Charlie, who was trying to explain why he didn't want to be with Chris when Julian, or Ben, or Noel, or Richard was around. 

He can’t fucking stand Chris talking to anyone else, giving them a friendly pat on the back, looking over the script from his place at their shoulder, listening to them ramble on and fucking on about what _choices_ they want to make, what _direction_ they think they’d like to take things, what their _motivations_ are and Charlie has to go outside and smoke two cigarettes, the one right after the other, because otherwise he’ll scream himself silly. 

In his heart he knows that it’s because they’re actors, and actors shrivel up like shrunken heads the moment they’re not the centre of attention. 

He'd pled off. _Got a deadline_ he'd said _have to decapitate Natalie and vomit down her neck-hole._ Chris had tilted his head sharply, raised his eyebrows. It didn't make him laugh. Noel had merely looked confused. 

_Are we finished here?_ Julian asked Chris who'd merely said _Good luck with that, Charlie._

Charlie's face had burned at the rebuff and he'd muttered a goodbye of his own, shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled himself home, stopping off at the Tesco Express for their cheapest Chianti and a ten-pack. Once inside his own flat he'd promptly stripped down to his pants, cracked open the wine, and opened up his laptop.

Just a quick email check, he'd promised himself, only Grace had sent him a link to a video about llamas, a stupid song that made him giggle, and she was still online, around, so they'd opened up chat, and by the time that was over he decided he couldn't really say anything about Natalie without watching the telly footage over, but all that did was remind him of that stern, disappointed look Chris had given him earlier, and in the end he'd simply left the cursor blinking forlornly as he sprawled out on the couch; sweaty, stupid.

~~~

Come Saturday he drags himself up and into the shower where he makes a concerted effort at thinking up jokes, and when he's washed his hair and come up with enough mean things to give him at least a few hundred words in the bag, a quick tug down the drain is his reward. 

He's on time, pretty much, with a takeaway cup that he's planning to refill from the coffee urn. 

Chris is there, his back to Charlie as he hovers over the fruit selection. Charlie hesitates, but then Chris turns. Sees him. He looks fresh as a fucking dewdrop.

He drains what’s left in his cup, sour, lukewarm, with a wince, and wishes he'd just chucked it on the way in. 

_Morning_ he says. It probably sounds like he’s taking the piss. 

_Morning._ Chris smiles at Charlie. He has a plate of cut fruit, an apple. _How'd the writing go?_

His pulse quickens. He can't possibly _know_ , can he, that Charlie had pissed the night away? If he can it's only because he knows Charlie well enough by now, surely. He might know that. He doesn't know the precise manner of the pissing. So to speak. 

_Not bad_ he lies. _Yeah. Pretty good, actually._ If only the jokes he'd thought up in the shower had made it onto the page. But it was basically as good as having written, in theory. 

_You coming out with us tonight, then?_ Noel sneaks up on Charlie unawares. He's poking at a blueberry muffin like it might have fangs. 

_Maybe._ Charlie catches Chris's eye. _I've still got to put the polish on things, you know how it is._

 _What's that?_ Julian asks. _You're here early._

 _Nothing_ Charlie says _just writing stuff._

~~~

Being on set has honed Chris's focus. He's intense, calm. Charlie, on the other hand, is simply waiting to be found out. Chris could sack him at any time. It's not like there would be repercussions. It's not like he's offering the production anything besides surly looks and a churning stomach. 

His anxiety demands nicotine and the caffeine keeps his appetite at bay which is good because if he puts anything down there besides a biscuit or two he's pretty certain it'll simply come right back up. By the time he stumbles home, ragged, exhausted, his whole body's been turned into acid and he couldn't eat, even if his cupboard had anything in it beside some stale Weetabix. 

His stomach growls at him angrily. Charlie curses its and goes to fetch himself yet another coffee. 

_I can get that for you_ one of the runners chirps as she spots him. 

She’s only got the one job to do, to make sure the important people are happy. She should be bringing Chris and Julian coffee, not him. He’s not done anything that merits having a complete stranger wait on him like a fucking servant. 

_I’ve got it_ he says, trying to move past her, _you really don’t have to_. 

_It’s my job_ she replies, still in his way. 

_I need a cigarette anyways_ he tells her because by this point he really actually does. _Why don’t we get it on the way?_

_~~~_

They're shooting Claire in the bedroom that afternoon, so the call sheet is only her, Noel, and Julian. Lots of tight zooms on Julian's face, which Chris seems to find hilarious. Julian comes over to watch the playback, his shoulder mere inches from Chris's own. They're of a height, and for whatever reason this makes Charlie furious. He continues to be annoyed when Chris pulls out the apple from that morning and eats it in large, decisive bites, while Noel comes over to offer his own input. 

Charlie gets fed up with watching them and goes out for a smoke.

Does he regret how they'd spent the summer? Course not. It was fucking exhilarating. Terrifying, sure, but when hadn't things with Chris been otherwise? Regret isn't the same as bitterness, though, and he's got shovelfuls of that shit. 

When he pops back in they're still at it. Chris is holding the apple core in one hand, gesticulating with the other. Julian is nodding his head in agreement. 

Claire shoulders her way past with a coffee of her own. _You going outside?_

_I just got back_ he says _but I'll go with you_. 

_Could be a bit._

He shakes out a cigarette for her, and she inhales gratefully. Holds the smoke in at the top before blowing it out in a steady stream away from his face. Polite. Charlie avails himself of the opportunity to check out her tits, which are a bit of all right, although he’d liked the other girl who’d auditioned better. She’d been nice to him, Charlie thought. He could’ve be in there. 

Claire talks about something or other for the three minutes it takes her to finish. Charlie spends most of that time trying to decide if he should smoke another himself, but in the end decides that he’ll be polite and simply wait around until she’s done. He'll listen to what she has to say. To make up for looking at her tits. 

Really he wants nothing more than to go home, drink wine in the bath, maybe do a couple farts in the water. But he's staring down the barrel of a terrifying deadline. The fucking thing has to get done tonight. 

_Got any plans for tomorrow?_ Claire asks as they make their way back to the bedroom set. 

About four wanks, maybe a little cry? Could see how Grace is fixed. He needs groceries. He has to fucking write. 

_Nothing much_ he answers _how about you?_

_Glad to have the day off_ she says. _I'll have a lie-in_. 

_~~~_

It’s rounding the bend to ten when they finally get the shots Chris wants and he calls time. Activity swirls around them, the few people remaining on set switch off lights and power down equipment. A stagehand sweeps the floor from where they’ve tracked dirt in over the course of an evening. 

_I need to eat_ Julian says to no one in particular and Claire offers to go along.

 _Are you coming_ Noel asks Chris who shakes his head no. Claire is putting on her coat, Noel shifting from side to side and snapping his fingers to an invisible beat. 

_Appreciate the offer_ Chris says _but Charlie and I really should stay back. We’ve got a few things to get in order._

Immediately Julian’s eyebrows shoot up. _Do you need me to stick around longer?_ he asks. 

_Go on_ Chris tuts, and claps Julian on the shoulder. _I’ll see you Monday._

Chris personally says good night to each person as they leave. He knows everybody's name, too. The stage manager is the last one out the door. 

_Are you sure you’re all right on your own?_ she asks. 

_Everyone’s down the pub_ Chris reminds her _it's nothing but script edits we need to talk through._

 _If you’re certain_ she says. _Goodnight, Chris. Goodnight, Charlie._

Great. That's fucking great. He's exhausted, starving, and he still has work to do. But Chris being Chris, he can expect to be here for a few hours at least. 

_Come on Charlie_ Chris says when they're all finally gone. _Let's go sit down_. 

There's an offstage area they usually use for script edits but Chris says _over here_. They make their way past interior sets: the cafe, SugarApe offices, Claire’s bedroom, Dan’s living room, and then at last, the Place interior. It’s pretty dim in there until Chris switches on a floodlight that casts the near part of the room in brightness.

They sit next to one another on the couch. His stomach makes another awful gurgling sound. 

Chris looks put off by the noise. _Was that you?_

_I’ll have to find something to eat_ Charlie says, looking around as if the catering is going to materialize, _is it all put away already?_

 _I have an apple_ Chris says and indicates his satchel bag with a jut of his chin. _You can have it if you like._ He upturns the bag onto the table in front of them. 

An Altoids tin, the aforementioned apple, a mostly empty blister back of gum. Pens, little notebooks, index cards. A round travel tin of Vaseline. And what looks like a bit of kit, too. 

Charlie darts a glance at Chris, who is studying the spread in front of them. _You want to skin one up for us?_

He frowns, picks up the baggie and sniffs the contents. Nice stuff, better than the dried out shake he’s got in his freezer at the moment. There hasn’t been any time to replenish. It would be nice to relax for a bit, wouldn’t it?

He coughs. _We’d be breaking about ten different Health and Safety rules, wouldn’t we?_

Chris’s eyes glance skyward before he says _You hear a list of propositions like that it makes you want to violate each and every one of them in new and creative ways. Or_ he peers at Charlie with a curious expression, _at least it does me._

_Here?_ he says, looking around the sound stage. _Aren’t there smoke detectors?_

The eyeroll again. His heartbeat accelerates, the way it had when he'd tried to match his pace with Chris’s own on the walks they used to take. A saunter was more his speed. 

_Oh_ Charlie says dumbly. Chris has been on sets for going on a decade now. He certainly would know if there were smoke detectors, if the fire brigade would come storming in. _Well, if you think it's all right._

 _I’m off tobacco_ Chris says, almost apologetically, when Charlie’s search through the pile turns up nothing but imported papers and some plastic filters. _It'll burn all right without._

Charlie rolls up, digs in his jeans pocket for his lighter, sparks the end. The paper takes a second to catch, but when it does it burns clean and bright. He’s quaking on the inside but when it comes to smoking pot on a sofa, he reasons, at least then he knows what he’s doing. 

He stares straight ahead as he takes a long drag, drawing his hand into his lap as he holds in the smoke, then blowing it away from Chris’s face. 

_Give it here_ Chris says, beckoning with his long fingers. Charlie sneaks another pull to cover his fluster then passes it over. 

Chris holds it between his thumb and forefinger, pulls on the end delicately, looks thoughtfully at the burning end as he puffs out a little cloud. Then he holds it up to Charlie's mouth. The motion surprises him and he inhales sharply, harder than he should, coughing at once on a thick lungful of Amsterdam’s finest. The floor tilts to the right a few degrees. Charlie's stomach quiets its protestations; his scalp prickles. For about twenty seconds his extremities tingle, which is nice, and then they become leaden, which should be unpleasant but isn’t.

Maybe he can simply lie back and let time wash over him indifferently. That’d be fine. Matter of fact, why bother leaving? The sofa was mainly decorative, but he could crawl into the set bed in the other room, couldn’t he? God, that sounded like bliss. He could finish the column — start the column — tomorrow. 

For the first time in ages, Charlie yawns. 

_Don’t fall asleep on me now_. Without noticing it, he finds that Chris has moved closer to him. His breath tickles Charlie’s ear. His hair is long, Charlie notices, longer than it was over the summer.

Since day one Charlie has been aching for anything — a pat on the shoulder, a friendly little slap — and instead he’d gone in earlier and earlier each morning and stayed later and later each night and all he had to show for it was a hole eating through his stomach and friction burn on his dick from every Sunday since they began spent in some kind of masturbatory purgatory. 

_It’s been a long week_ Chris says. His hand lifts up from his knee and finds a place on Charlie’s. His heart slams in his chest. Is this it, then? Finally, after all this time? 

Unconsciously, Charlie opens up his legs. Chris’s eyes flick down, dark, and flick back up, pleased but without much warmth. How does he manage it? 

His brain waves at him from across the room. 

Chris hasn’t said _yes it’s okay_ or _go ahead Charlie_ but why else would he want Charlie here, like this, after hours, only the two of them on a locked-up sound stage? It’s certainly not his looks, nor his winning personality. 

Charlie stretches out his arm. Dares to feel for the place where Chris’s legs meet but right away he takes a firm hold of Charlie’s wrist and moves it away, back to his own thigh. 

_Don’t_ Chris says _you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do._

Now he feels doubly, trebly stupid. Isn’t he supposed to want? Isn’t that his job? 

_I want to_ he feels his mouth move and the traitorous words come out _I want to put my mouth on you._

He can see it in his head. The way he's thought about it on Sundays. Chris’ll stand up and face Charlie, a fat bulge distending the front of his trousers, and he’ll rub Charlie’s head like he’s doing now. He won’t say anything about how eager he looks — or if he does then it’ll be nice, too, not mean like he can be sometimes — and he’ll gasp, twitch a bit as Charlie undoes the button and lowers the zip and maybe he’ll put a finger under Charlie’s chin and say _go slowly piglet you’re always rushing things_ and he’ll nod dumbly and open Chris’s fly, pull down his pants — 

_Charlie_ Chris says _Charlie don’t fall asleep on me._

Charlie jerks his head up from where it’d lolled back against the sofa. 

_Sorry_ he mumbles _sorry I’m really knackered._

 _You’re a right mess_ Chris says. His voice sounds warm. His breath is hot. _You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. You smoke like a chimney._

Charlie licks his lips. A second ago he’d been close to salivating, but now his mouth is dry. _But I want to_ he says. 

_Another time_ he says, and it’s patient. Kind. 

_You’re hard now_ Charlie says, like that's going to convince him. 

_And so are you_ Chris answers, and then, as if to prove it, unzips Charlie’s jeans. 

He looks down all dumb and bleary. _Well, would you look at that_ he says, and now he sounds like a complete fucking tit. 

His lips part. Air slides warm across his tongue. _But_ Charlie says and Chris echoes him _but?_

_But what if someone comes in_ Charlie asks.

 _I sent them home_ Chris answers confidently. _Like you wanted._

Charlie's face must go the colour of the sofa at that, but then Chris is standing up, tapping out what's left of joint and then sinking gracefully onto his knees. 

_What_ he splutters _what are you doing?_

 _Take your jeans off for me._ Chris leans back on his haunches. His arms are stupidly long, hanging down at his sides. Whole inches of his wrists are exposed because his shirtsleeves aren’t long enough to cover them. It should look ridiculous, and a small traitorous piece of Charlie wants to laugh at the sight, but he won’t. He _couldn’t_ , even if he wanted to. 

Instead, Charlie does as he’s told. 

_Pants too_ he says. His eyes are glassy as he speaks. His attention's fixed like it's been since this morning, but now it's all focussed on him. No more actors, no more crew. Only the two of them. Like before. 

Charlie's skin prickles. The sofa scratches beneath his bare legs. The room expands, impossibly. 

_Has it been a while?_ he asks, pushing Charlie back against the sofa and spreading him wide open with his thumbs. Charlie can’t be entirely sure he doesn’t whimper. Jesus, how fucking embarrassing. 

What’s he meant to say? _I tried to carry on with my life, despite knowing that we’d end up here, eventually, on this set, with all these fucking people around. I watched shit television and wrote my columns and okay, maybe I tried to recall your hands, your shape but it wasn’t the same, not even remotely like it._

God, he’s fucked up. Fucked up and fucked in the head, which is spinning.The sensation is right on the verge of being unpleasant, but at the same time, it’s nice to have something else to blame for his stupidity. He can always claim later that he didn’t know what was happening. 

He's done his best to play at casual. Like they’re just a couple of blokes who wank one another off, on occasion, like men do in foxholes and boarding schools: Chris would fucking know. 

That’s all this is. It’s all it’s ever been. 

Except. Except a furtive fumble after lights-out was one thing. 

But here? On a set with a floodlight so intense he’s got to keep his eyes shut. Secret would have been simple. A cupboard for five minutes, a toilet stall for ten. 

Chris’s hands are under his bare backside — suddenly his shirt seems to have gone missing — and pulling him down until he’s mostly hanging off the sofa. There’s sweat building underneath his back where it rubs against the cushions. 

_We’ll be in tremendous trouble if we ruin it_ Chris explains and _I’m not about to go off in search of a tarp_.

 _Jesus Christ_ Charlie very nearly shouts as Chris licks into the space he’s opened up, and Chris, the fucking bastard, grins at him. Against his bare stomach, his cock gives a large twitch, adding to the little puddle already gathering beneath it. 

Chris continues with his attentions, and the motion seesaws Charlie back and forth right there on the edge of the sofa. Yes, it had been a while. Since the last time they'd....

Charlie tries to find the right angle for his head. Whenever he leans back it makes him lightheaded but when he sits up his head falls forward onto his chest and that makes him feel queasy instead. He squeezes his eyes shut. Behind his closed lids he can see stars, comets, whole fucking galaxies. That's even worse so he wrenches them back open, despite his vision blurring when he does so. 

He shouldn’t tell him. He shouldn’t say anything. He can’t. He _can’t_. 

But his mouth is making words that his brain wishes it wasn’t. _I bought something_ he sayscheeks burning, his neck all crawly like there are spiders on his spine. _Just in case. Because it’s been a long time. But I thought maybe we might — that_ you _might — y’know._

Chris’s hair comes to a stop. He lifts his head and dear God, the intensity with which he’s looking at Charlie is high voltage enough to kill him. Maybe that's already happened. Could be he’s already dead. In which case: did his conscious mind construct this situation specifically to make him go fucking mental? 

_Gosh_ Chris says and lifts an eyebrow. 

Charlie wonders if the floor can swallow him outright. London isn’t known for earthquakes, but what he wouldn’t give for a medium-sized natural disaster right around now. 

_I would have sent you home with a gift basket. Throw some chocolates and satsumas in there for good measure._

Charlie laughs but it comes out particularly stupid, like he’s trying too hard. 

Chris reaches back for the tin. Charlie sucks in a breath through his teeth, over his prickly, thick tongue. He'd planned this, he realizes. He'd brought _supplies._

_What do you do with it?_ he asks as he unscrews the lid. _Do you use it by yourself?_

 _Uh_ Charlie manages. Chris is working the sticky paste between his fingers to warm it up, and it makes a squelching sound that makes him dizzy with anticipation. 

The pads of Chris’s fingers circle outside, then inside, starting with one and building up to three, swirling tight and hot inside of him. The muscle tightens, relaxes, then gapes. It’s maddeningly slow. Like always, Chris takes his sweet fucking time. Never mind the late hour, that Charlie's been keyed up for weeks already. By accident he slides further down off the sofa, feeling Chris's large knuckles right against his stretched-taut skin. 

_Stop teasing_ Charlie grits out and Chris’s eyes light up, delighted. 

_Stop?_ He withdraws his fingers, moves his greasy hand to Charlie’s inner thigh, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. 

Charlie shivers, whines in frustration. His hips give a little abortive thrust. _Fucking do it already._

Chris looks disappointed but Charlie doesn’t care about anything except being filled by something other than his own stubby fingers and cold, unyielding silicone. 

_Do what?_ Chris asks, all polite cheer. From his peripheral vision Charlie sees him drop his other hand, the clean one, down into his own lap. 

Charlie squeezes his eyes shut. It's still galaxies. He takes a breath and says _you_ _know what I want_. 

_What’re you after?_

_I’m asking nicely._

_I don’t care about nice_ Chris says in response. _I care about honest._

_Honestly, I want you to fuck me._

_Honestly you want what?_

_Honestly, fuck me._

_Fuck you honestly?_

_Sure_ Charlie wheezes out _sure that works._

 _In that case_ Chris says, and Charlie groans with anticipation _—_ the sound appallingly loud for such a large space _—_ as he hears the zip lower, feels Chris fumble beneath his body. The wet tip of his dick glances against Charlie’s backside and he groans again.

He fades out briefly, expecting to come to with Chris inside of him, but instead it’s to Chris looking down at him: concerned. 

No.

No.

He can’t _look_ at him that way, like he gives a toss about hurting Charlie. He’s hurt Charlie dozens of different ways because he knows, he has to know, that’s all he really deserves. Not _this_. Not gentleness. Anything but that.

 _No one else?_ Chris asks softly, and Charlie shakes his head with such vigor it makes him woozy. 

_Only you_ Charlie says, almost a whisper. _Only you, Chris_. 

That has an effect though Charlie is too gone, too stoned, too sex-stupid to try and put his finger on what it is, but he’ll puzzle it out down the line.

 _Can I?_ he says, his voice lugubrious, slow like honey. His cock is in his hand, the Vaseline melting into his skin. Charlie licks his lips, strains his neck to see: a shiny blur of pink and red, light glinting off the surface. _Will you let me?_

There’s no condom _there’s no condom_ there’s no nothing but _fuck_ one good push is all it’ll take, one full deep thrust to push that perfect dick inside and then it won’t matter, nothing will matter but Chris’s thick cock filling him, his bony hips pinning him to the sofa. 

_Yes_ Charlie wheezes out, reaching his hands out to grasp at empty air _yes, Jesus, just fucking do it already._

_Wonderful_ Chris says. One big hand fits under Charlie’s knee and he lines himself up with the other. He says _I might step up my regimen, if I were you._ _Say three times a week?_

Charlie wills himself not to squeal aloud in response. The bastard. He knew he shouldn't have said anything. Chris'll never let him live this down. 

But his embarrassment fades fast in the face of the pain. It hurts. It hurts and it burns and it’s absolutely too much. Bigger than his fingers (he’s only ever managed two at once), bigger than what he'd bought for himself to try and stay loose. 

Eventually, eventually it’s in him. Most of the way, all the way, he’s not entirely sure. But it’s enough to make his stomach bulge out with every stroke. Chris is breathing through clenched teeth, watching it happen. He covers Charlie’s abdomen with his hand as he’s fucking into him all slow, lays his palm flat against his belly. When he moves in he pushes down with his hand and it makes Charlie queasy to think how deep he's got. 

His skin looks terrible, he realizes as he looks down his own prone body. Pink, mottled from Chris’s evening stubble. It chafes, too, Chris's thighs rubbing against his own as he drives his cock in. He looks away, suddenly ashamed of what a fucking mess he is. 

He isn’t allowed to wallow in his own degradation like that for long. Without breaking his stride Chris yanks him forward so that his whole backside's off the sofa and grabs his foot to sling his upright leg fully over his shoulder. A toe _—_ he thinks the middle one _—_ cracks loud in the quiet studio. 

Charlie's hands hang limp at his sides. All he can do is lie there and take it, let Chris use him however he likes. If it weren’t for Chris’s hands on his stomach, holding his leg up, and the cock inside him, he’d slide right down to the floor. His eyelids are heavy. Christ, he’s tired. You’d think the sensation of getting fucked would rouse him but it somehow only makes him more exhausted.

 _You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?_ he asks. 

_Anything_ Charlie answers without a moment's hesitation. _Anything you want to._

 _That’s really sick_ Chris looks affronted. His shoulders stiffen and he scowls down at Charlie. Gradually, his pace slows until he’s stopped completely. 

_But_ — Charlie stammers, confused. It's true, and Chris knows it. Surely he's just saying what he wants to hear? — _but you said it first_. 

_Yeah but I was only joking_ Chris says. _You need to learn some self-respect._ Charlie screws his eyes shut, shifts against Chris’s cock. It almost seems like he might cry, but if he can get Chris moving again it’ll be all right. He can cover it up.

Chris bares his teeth, then, pulls all the way out and rubs the shaft of his cock up and down through the crack in his arse. Charlie's legs are kicking against the space between them. He can't get purchase on anything to get himself back onto it and he gnashes his teeth in frustration. 

He stops Charlie with a forearm against his hamstrings and pushes him back onto the sofa. His legs dangle apart. Literally everything is right there on display. Not for the first time he imagines the camera rolling, the whole cast and crew there to watch him come apart, to fall to pieces for Chris’s pleasure. 

Chris tips his head down to see, too, and says casually _well would you look at that_. 

_No_ he shakes his head and scrunches his eyes up _no no no —_

 _Look Charlie_ Chris's hot exhales punctuate his words and Charlie can’t not do as he’s told. Fuck, the ceiling’s gone sideways, where the wall should be. Its edges blur until all that’s left is a pinky-red smear which, once his eyes refocus and the blobs resolve themselves: sofa, guitars, posters, and a body hovering over him. 

The light filters through Chris’s hair as it waves at him.

He's putting it back in, slow as he likes. It's all dark and smooth, gleaming almost from the Vaseline. It makes him feel a little ill, actually, now he thinks about it, and for whatever reason that nauseating, sick feeling gets his pulse racing. It’s terrible. Charlie gasps when he looks at it, gasps again when Chris pulls him up by the neck so he can’t look away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. 

_Good_ Chris says when he has Charlie’s full attention. _Good. I want you know who's fucking you_. His face is red too, Charlie thinks. He still has on his rugby shirt. One side of the collar has popped up and sticks to his damp neck. 

Chris leans down into him once more, shoving him into a position only seen on advanced yoga students and it's like the sensation in his arsehole is somehow making his mouth move because he says, without Chris even egging him on _I only want you to fuck me._ It’s cheek-burningly humiliating and yet _—_ _Christ_ , it’s exactly what he wants. 

Chris looks pleased. He readjusts, folds Charlie’s leg up on itself and says _hold that_. Charlie’s fingers are slippery somehow so he’s got to dig them in under his knee and his leg wants to slip free, unfurl itself, but then Chris leans his whole body on top of Charlie’s and pins him down with his shoulder. A wretched noise like a haunted kettle steams up from his mouth. Charlie can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move, trapped like this and so fucking _fucking_ full.

The Vaseline has heated enough to melt. Charlie can feel it, making its slow way out of his arse, only to be caught on Chris’s cock and pushed back. The thought makes him feel unbearably dirty. He looks down, licks his lips. 

_Deeper_ Charlie says and Chris laughs down at him. His forehead is damp, hair sticking to it. 

_I shouldn’t think that was possible Charlie_ he says in that posh voice of authority that makes Charlie feel like he’s in the worst trouble of his young life and yet terminally excited by the reality of it. A drop of sweat hangs off the bridge of his nose. 

Charlie wipes his slack mouth against his bare shoulder. 

Chris's hips are banging into Charlie over and over again. He's driving in deep and he isn't playing anymore, isn't fucking slowing down. 

He's going to come, Charlie realizes with a happy jolt, and he's going to be able to feel it all. 

_Don't come yet_ he says with a grimace and Charlie lifts his head again to watch as Chris's movements get faster and faster and then with a loud, ragged noise he pushes in and stays in, deep, and Charlie can feel it, pulsing and veiny and filling him up like he's thought about for so fucking long. 

They stay there for a while, Charlie's dick sticky against his stomach, Chris's dick sticky and still warm inside of him, until Chris untangles Charlie's leg. A bright flash of pain hits him in the hip joint. There's pain all over, he can feel now that the buzz has worn off. He's starving. And he still hasn't fucking come. 

Gently, Chris puts his hands between Charlie's legs and pushes them apart. He can feel a trickle down his backside. It tickles but he refuses to permit himself to giggle, although he laughs a sudden, shocked laugh when Chris bends down and licks him with the broad flat of his tongue. 

It's wet, and it tickles when Chris strokes his thumbs against the inside of Charlie's thighs as he cleans him out with his tongue. Just when Charlie thinks he might go cross-eyed from frustration, he reaches up with one hand and pulls on Charlie's cock, firmly, until he's shaking and spilling all over his own stomach. It is, he is pleased to see when he looks down, at least what he'd have got from three shame-fueled wanks on his own sofa. 

_You can't sleep here_ Chris says, after Charlie's folded himself onto one of the shaggy pillows and closed his eyes. The floodlight is bright even behind them. 

_Why not_ he murmurs. _Like you said, they're all gone._

 _Health and Safety_ Chris says, and Charlie can hear the smile in his voice. _They'd have my bollocks._

 _Fuck you_ Charlie answers but he's smiling, too, into the furry pillow. 


End file.
